You may have heard me speak of my dad: the man I called “Burg,” the one who took me to Paris for the first time when I was only ten, introduced me to caviar long before puberty, revealed to me at sixteen the homely pleasure of rice pudding, and gave me a Cuisinart—carefully selected from his favorite shopping spot, eBay—for my 24th birthday. He loved to spoil me.

Today marks the two-year anniversary of Burg’s death to advanced-stage cancer of the kidney. He lived only ten weeks after his diagnosis. The disease had already spread to his spine and pelvis, skull, and legs. As a radiation oncologist who’d spent nearly fifty years treating and curing patients, his most poignant remark was, “What a kick in the ass.”

I miss him. Mostly I miss cooking with him, and for him. He was a man of many passions – from fly fishing to France, Gene Krupa to majolica, crossword puzzles, Dixieland jazz, dirty jokes, Dylan Thomas, and an old Alfa Romeo junker that sat in the driveway – but among the things he most adored were the kitchen and the eating, drinking, and laughter so vitally connected to it.

Some of my strongest memories of his illness – and of my last days with him – involve food, cooking for him and feeding him as he lay in a rented hospital bed in a room just off our kitchen. Though our family came together seamlessly to care for him, I often guarded for myself the task of preparing his meals: buttered rye toast, scrambled eggs with chevre, or reheated stew from the neighbors. I’d wake every morning to stir lumps of butter into his Cream of Wheat or half-and-half into his oatmeal, spooning it into his mouth in frantic disbelief as his belly – the target of many years of nagging – slowly melted away. As his pain worsened and the level of his medications increased, his eating grew more creative. One day, over a plate of eggs, he told me excitedly that we were in Italy having a picnic, and that when we finished eating, we’d go for a swim in the grotto. His hallucination blurring into reality, he called my scrambled eggs “Italian grotto eggs” from then on. I loved that. Somehow his brain, through the food on his plate, could bridge the gap between his blurry, transient dream-world and the very real present. I guess it was his way of leaving that bed, of escaping winter-locked Oklahoma, of fleeing the body that had carried him for 73 years and suddenly dropped him without warning.

Lying there, he traveled. We spoke French sometimes, his shaky command of the language better than it had ever been when he was well. One day, while searching for a phone number in his organizer, I happened to glance at the schedule pages from the previous spring, when he’d come to visit me in Paris, where I was living at the time. He’d written down the details of everything we’d done and nearly every meal we’d eaten: rhubarb clafoutis here, marinated fresh sardines there. I am no doubt my father’s daughter.

Some days his absence feels heavy, almost tangible. But most often I think of him in quiet celebration, with a sort of gratitude, a lightness. Burg loved words and puns and poetry; he’d be thrilled to see me writing. Or rather, I think he is thrilled. He’s around somewhere, watching – even when I wish he weren’t. In many respects, I write for him, for all the times at the dinner table when he’d lift his head, fork in hand, and exclaim, “You know, we eat better at home than most people do in restaurants!” My brother David and I used to tease him for it. I thought he was bragging. But I’d be lying if I said that Burg’s exclamation doesn’t ring true today, when I sit down to my own table. I know now what he was getting at. His silly old saying was – and is – a testament to the profoundly human joy of making and sharing food with the people you love. It’s a celebration.

Today I’d like to share a poem by James Wright, an American poet who died in 1980 after a very short but intense battle with cancer, like Burg. The year before his death, Wright spent nine months traveling in Europe with his wife, waking early to write poems. This poem is from a collection written during Wright’s final travels in Europe and published posthumously. My siblings and I all spoke or read at Burg’s memorial service, and this is what I chose. He would have loved the fact that this poem allowed me to say “making love” – while wearing fishnets, I should add, an edgy touch he would have also applauded – before a priest, a bishop, a rabbi, and an overflow crowd of 550 people in an Episcopal church in Bible-belted Oklahoma City. I am so my father’s daughter. I can almost hear him laughing now.

Yes, But

Even if it were trueEven if I were dead and buried in VeronaI believe I would come out and wash my faceIn the chill spring.I believe I would appearBetween noon and four, when nearlyEverybody else is asleep or making love,And all the Germans turned down, the motorcyclesMuffled, chained, still.

Then the plump lizards along the Adige by San GiorgioCome out and gaze,Unpestered by temptation, across the water.I would sit among them and join them in leavingThe golden mosquitos alone.Why should we sit by the Adige and destroyAnything, even our enemies, even the preyGod caused to glitter for usDefenseless in the sun?We are not exhausted. We are not angry, or lonely,Or sick at heart.We are in love lightly, lightly. We know we are shining,Though we cannot see one another.The wind doesn’t scatter us,Because our very lungs have fallen and driftedAway like leaves down the Adige,Long ago.

Comments

What a beautiful and moving tribute to your dad, Molly! I am honoured to have been able to read it. I too would have liked your dad very much. Cherish those memories. You are a lucky, lucky girl. Hugs, <>< HREF="http://www.blogger.com/r?http%3A%2F%2Fseattlebonvivant.typepad.com%2F">Viv<><>

Molly, what a lovely tribute to your dad – my brother. We celebrate his life each year on this anniversary, here in Maine, and send him flowers on the outgoing tide. We had shared many pleasures in our lives together, and I miss him in subtle ways that leave the outline of a hollow in my being, a void left wanting by his death.

Molly, this is truly beautiful. Thank you. As you know, my own mother died from cancer 6 years ago this December 27. And like your father, she too loved food. There are many things I miss about her, but I especially miss the smell of *her* kitchen. Since her death, my studies into cooking have been a form of remembrance and memory of her. They say that the sense of smell is an incredibly powerful way to awaken memories.

So let’s raise our wine glasses to your dad and my mom. May they provide us with a steady stream of love and a pinch of guidance to our adventures in the kitchen!

I am relatively new to blogging and to food blogs, but I subscribed to yours on first sight (site? heh).And then I found that you, too, were tagged for the childhood food memories meme. (I wish I hadn’t had to write that, as food was poor substance in our house.)Reading your words about your father, well, I can only tell you that, even though I never saw my father after I turned three, and he died when I was nineteen, I can feel him hovering around. I think he turns my keyboard into some kind of silly/spooky/irreverent Ouija board, when he types “dregstores” instead of “drugstores,” for instance.I think you probably know what I mean.Not a ghost, but his spirit. Your father was so lovely, and you are so blessed to have known that love. Imagine that: the prototypical food blogger!Cheers, m’dear. Thank you for the words, and especially for the poem.

Tana, thank <>you<> for your kind words. I know well what you mean when you say that you can feel your father hovering around. Although Burg and I were quite close, in many ways I feel almost closer to him now that he’s gone; I notice more of him in myself and in the things I love. I even notice that I’ve taken up his love for punning, for better or for worse! But more than anything, writing (and cooking and eating) for Orangette keeps him with me. So thank you for reading, and for sharing this with me. Cheers to all of it!

I remember reading this a long while ago, and it struck a cord even though my father was alive and well at the time. My Dad died very suddenly three weeks ago, and I came to this page tonight to re-read your lovely tribute. I want to thank you for sharing this. I am especially comforted by your line, “most often I think of him in quiet celebration, with a sort of gratitude, a lightness.” Thank you.

I’m reading your book. A recipe every night. Loving it.The reason I bought the book. In a review, I read about your cooking eggs for your father who was ill and had not much appetite.That resonated with me enough to get me to the bookstore and to buy it. But I had no idea just how much it would resonate.My father passed five years ago. Also cancer. Also had metastasized throughout most of his organs. He had a tumor between each of his vertebrae. He passed a few weeks after being diagnosed. And during that time I was with him as he wouldn’t eat and as he’d hallucinate about being 16 and driving fast cars. The humor and joy he had during the hallucinations were as much a gift as the few moments of lucidity when I could really talk wit him. Both were difficult gifts, of course.I cried all the way through this chapter. It was a beautiful catharsis and so comforting to not feel so alone. Thank you a thousand times.

Molly, I came across your blog by chance and have been reading the old posts to get to know you. You’re a wonderful writer – this post, in particular, is beautiful. I wish I could uproot myself from my home in Sydney, Australia, in order to eat at your table (if you’d have me).Let me know if you ever need a chaperone down under 🙂Katie

Molly – I greatly enjoy your blog and recipies. I wanted you to know that I sent this poem to my brother and sister. While we are older and our Dad and Mom have been gone over 4 years we are still so lonely for them. Poetry, Mozart arias and delicious eating reminds us to live our lives as fully as your dear Dad. Thank you

I am thinking about you and your dad and family, and how you describe in your book your family being together at home during his last weeks, taking care of him and of each other.My dad is so sick. I don’t know if he’ll make it. But our story is so different. This is why I came to look again at your dad posts.I want to write about it, to let it all out, but it’s scary.My father left me when I was about 3 years old and moved to another continent and moved on with his life. Like a friend recently told me – I have already lost him a long time ago and practically all my life.Our family is so separated too. I feels so lonely.It makes me happy though to hear storied of families like yours, where people help each other, love each other.

(By the way, you signed my copy of your book “To Molly” – how funny is that?)

I just discovered your blog about three days ago, working backwards through while I eat my meals! I just read this post and definitely cried the whole way through. My father and I were never close, but my father-in-law was amazing. He was diagnosed with stage 4 non-Hodgkin's lymphoma a year after he retired and died a year later. Throughout his illness he couldn't eat many of his favorite things, but near the end, the doctor told him he could have his favorite, vanilla ice cream from Fenton's in Oakland. I remember helping him eat this favorite treat and him looking so very happy. Thank you for sharing this, it brought this memory back tonight.

I had many big losses so far. I am sure I will have more. I still do not understand why good people leave us so early (and I am over my forties). That's why I believe like you that they are always around, even when they are not physically anymore. That's the only comfort I have found since my losses started. Thanks for sharing your history.

My dad died long before I had the chance to know him and I went abroad this semester to the University he attended and lectured at in Sydney.

It makes me happy that such an excellent person such as yourself (I'd like to believe that no one could write as well as you do and not be an excellent person) had such a dad to know and love, plus we can't be wasting all of those excellent parents in the world on obnoxious brats now can we. I'm in favor of a ballot measure for the reappropriation of excellent parents. – sorry 2 AM logic-

Dear molly, from far away i come. just decided to read your blog from the start, as if it was a book, and not long after i'm already inspired. The post, for I read many food blogs, is one of the best recipe for warmth I encountered with.

Molly – I read the chapters on your Dad's illness and death today on the train into work this morning. Your words there – and here, in this old post – were so deeply moving and hit a nerve for me in so many ways. I would imagine that anyone who's ever lost someone to cancer can relate, in a way, to what you've gone through with your Dad. Thanks for sharing such a deeply moving and personal story. And for the record, your Dad sounds like a hoot – I would have loved to have known him!

Molly – I read the chapters on your Dad's illness and death today on the train into work this morning. Your words there – and here, in this old post – were so deeply moving and hit a nerve for me in so many ways. I would imagine that anyone who's ever lost someone to cancer can relate, in a way, to what you've gone through with your Dad. Thanks for sharing such a deeply moving and personal story. And for the record, your Dad sounds like a hoot – I would have loved to have known him!

I went looking for your rhubarb recipes this morning, and this thumbnail was one of the search results. With the title “Two Years” and a cute little girl in the photo, I clicked, thinking, “oh, Molly must have written something sweet for June Bug’s second birthday. That will brighten my morning.”

But of course, it’s not June in the photo. It’s you.
Molly, thank you for letting me, a complete stranger, share in your life. My heart is warm and full and my belly is often the same because of your writing.

I’m reading your book and I’m at the part where you write about your father’s illness. It’s very moving and I have to be careful where I read it – the tears start rolling down my cheek. This is a very loving tribute to your father. Beautifully written.